I wake up in the morning, gasping for air.

I am panicking. I can't help it. I hate it. In order to make it go away, I have to Do Things. The scarier the better.

I've signed up for a class to get my long gun and my restricted gun license.

WTF.

I know.

T is MIA. I cannot count on him. There's only me, there's only this.

~

I finished Tracy's chair today. She wanted me to take this old beater and strip it, reinforce the frame, and reupholster it in purple velvet.

So I did.

I delivered it to her in the bar, which is funny to me. A bunch of her friends were there.

"How did you learn that?" one of them asks in awe. I forget that most people don't upholster things in the middle of their livingrooms.

"I learned from a book," I tell them, quite honestly. "The boss says, 'Do this!' so I read a book really fast and try to do it."

"Did you mess it up the first time?" one of the guys asks. "The first time you did it?"

I look at him with my most perfect blank expression.

"No," I tell him, which is also an honest answer. "Because I'm brilliant," I add, keeping my perfect blank expression. This makes the table erupt into cascades of laughter, and I blush, because I can't help it.

I am two sides of the same coin: Cocky as shit, and perpetually self-doubting.

I just love it when people think I'm wonderful.

One of the women wants an old stool re-caned.

"I've never done that before," I tell her, "but let me read a book really fast."

I know the basics on how to recane things, but I've never done it.

I think I could. It doesn't look that hard.

~

I'm a little drunk. Two ciders. Way over priced.

Trying not to think about moving this summer. Trying not to throw up.

I haven't told T yet, even though we're not technically broken up.

I don't know how to broach it. He dodges me every time we talk. I hate that. Fucking coward.

Fuck. I gotta sleep.

.

Rosie.

Before&After